


Take Me Out to the Ballgame

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis are a baseball team playing against the National Guard at Barricade Stadium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Out to the Ballgame

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually one of the most Brick canon compliant things I've ever written, so, you know, take of that what you will.
> 
> Very little knowledge of baseball is required to understand this, predominantly because my own knowledge of baseball is not exactly extensive.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“Good evening and welcome to Barricade Field for the second annual charity baseball league game between the National Guardsmen and your very own Les Amis de l’ABC!” The stadium erupted into cheers and the announcer waited for them to die down before continuing, “I’m Montparnasse and I will be announcing for this second-ever match-up between two formidable teams. The home team is, of course, the social justice group Les Amis, led by captain and pitcher Enjolras.” The crowd cheered even louder, and over in the bullpen, the man with the baseball cap jammed low over his blond curls gave a distracted wave, which only caused the volume from the crowd to increase.

“Of course, in addition to his stunning good looks and questionable sexuality — keep hoping, ladies, he’s not confirmed  _anything_  publicly, despite the many rumors of what he gets up to with his team, especially his catcher, Grantaire, who might catch in more than one way, if you get my meaning — Enjolras made history last year when he withdrew Les Amis from this self-same game after their right fielder, Jean Prouvaire, was injured. At the time, Enjolras was quoted as saying that while he was set on winning the game, he was less so set on victory than on the health of Jean Prouvaire.”

The crowd cheered again, assumedly as much for what they saw as Enjolras’s gallant actions as anything, and the National Guard team hissed and booed from their dugout. “Do you hear that, Apollo?” Grantaire called as he caught one of Enjolras’s warm-up pitches. “That’s the sound of your people right there.” Enjolras scowled and threw the next pitch harder than was probably necessary, causing Grantaire to wince.

“But none of that matters tonight, as we are gathered for the rematch of the year, sponsored by Thénardier's Inn and Catering Company, who are also providing our concessions this evening.” Montparnasse paused, letting the crowd cool down before saying, “And now, the starting line-up for your Les Amis!” Now the crowd went absolutely wild, and Montparnasse didn’t even bother waiting for them to calm down as he announced the players. “Batting first, the first baseman, Combeferre! Batting second, right-fielder Jehan Prouvaire. Third to bat, designated hitter Le Cabuc!”

The designated hitter waved to the crowd from the dugout, and Grantaire scowled at him. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he said to Enjolras, who just rolled his eyes. “Fine,” Grantaire sighed. “But when someone we barely know does something bad, you’ll only have yourself to blame.” And then he jogged out onto the field as Montparnasse called his name as fourth batter.

“Batting fifth, the Eagle himself, shortstop Lesgle Bossuet! Batting sixth, last season’s unanimous MVP, second baseman Feuilly! In the seventh slot, left-fielder Bahorel! Batting eighth, third baseman Jolllly! And bringing up the rear, the team’s center, and centerfielder, Courfeyrac!”

The crowd was cheering so wildly that they could barely hear Montparnasse announce the line-up for the National Guard, though they had quieted enough to hear Montparnasse tell them, “And our umpire this evening, new to this stadium though not to the game, is Javert.”

Over in the dugout, Valjean, Les Amis’ field manager, froze, but on the field, the players were busy getting ready while Javert surveyed them coldly before pulling his mask down and shouting, “Play ball!”

The top of the first inning was entirely uneventful. Enjolras was mostly on point with his pitches, throwing some beautiful strikes that had the National Guard team swinging, missing, and striking out. One got on first by a fly ball that dropped too quickly, but the next batter struck out, making for three outs and having Les Amis take the plate to bat.

As they headed back to the dugout, Montparnasse sighed, mock-dramatically, and said admiringly, “No runs, one hit, no errors. Look at that Enjolras go. And not just because he looks so good in those tight white pants.” Enjolras turned to scowl up at the announcer’s box, and Montparnasse just waved at him before adding, “But as good a pitcher as he undoubtedly is, we’d love to see him go up to bat just to see how he handles receiving…if you know what we mean.”

Enjolras’s scowl only deepened by the time he got back to the dugout, and Grantaire took one look at his face and whistled under his breath before handing him a bottle of water. “I would  _not_  want to be Montparnasse when you catch up with him after the game.” He glanced at Enjolras again and tried for a joke. “But I thought you  _liked_  sexual innuendos, especially when I’m the one making them.”

“I do like your sexual innuendos,” Enjolras grumbled, and Grantaire froze in surprise, at least until he continued, “And Courfeyrac’s, and Bahorel’s, and that one time Marius didn’t realize what he was saying and told the first and probably only sexual joke he’s ever made.” They both smiled fondly at the memory. “But I  _don’t_  like someone I barely know making sexual innuendos about me in public, and I  _don’t_  like having my sexuality be something to be wondered about like it’s anyone’s goddamn business.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, his expression serious. “I know,” he said, reaching out to touch Enjolras’s arm, “and I—”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by Combeferre hitting a spectacular double into right field and the entire dugout bursting into cheers. “That’s the way I like to start a game,” said Joly from Grantaire’s other side.

“Don’t celebrate too much,” said Bossuet, uncharacteristically grim. “We’ve got a long game ahead of ourselves.”

As if to prove his point, Jehan struck out, though two of the pitches seemed really low (and the crowd reacted accordingly, booing Javert, who didn’t seem to notice or care about their reaction as he bent to dust off home plate). Le Cabuc stepped up to the plate, to tepid applause from the crowd. The first pitch garnered a swing and a groan from the crowd. “What’s he doing?” Joly asked to Bossuet, who shook his head. “That was obviously a ball! It was way outside.”

The second pitch was equally bad, hovering about a foot above Le Cabuc’s head, and yet the man swung anyway, and Enjolras gripped the rail of the dugout with both hands. “Stop swinging at that crap!” he shouted at Le Cabuc, who seemed to ignore him, before muttering to Grantaire, “Maybe you were right about that bad feeling…”

Luckily for Enjolras, Grantaire was not there to hear Enjolras admit he might have been right, since he would have lorded that over him for…well, forever, probably. Instead, he was out of the dugout warming up, since he was next up to bat, though he had stopped his practice swings to glare suspiciously at Le Cabuc, who didn’t help matters by swinging for the third time at a ball that was obviously low and striking out.

“Two outs,” Feuilly said gloomily. “Joly, I think you’ve jinxed it.”

Joly snorted. “Please. We know that of myself and Bossuet, only one is a bad luck charm, and he’s currently warming up to bat. Besides, Grantaire will hit the ball.”

Whether because of Joly’s confidence or just a great coincidence, Grantaire chose that moment to hit a solid single to left field, bringing Combeferre to third and causing another outbreak of cheers among Les Amis as well as the crowd. “Now we’ve got a ball game!” Joly said cheerfully.

Of course, with that said, Bossuet struck out, and Joly got more than his fair share of glares as the teams switched positions on the field. But while Joly may or may not have jinxed their batting, Enjolras nonetheless kept up his excellent pitching, which made it slightly confusing when Grantaire called for a meeting at the pitcher’s mound, a move normally reserved for when Enjolras needed a break to refocus his pitching.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras hissed as Grantaire jogged up to mound.

Grantaire flashed him an easy smile. “Oh, you know, it had been a few minutes since we chatted and I was starting to miss you, Apollo. Can you blame a guy?” Enjolras’s answering glare showed that he definitely could, and Grantaire quickly became more serious. “Javert’s calls are becoming erratic. He’s calling ones right down the middle as balls.”

Enjolras frowned, turning the baseball over in his hands. “It doesn’t matter what he’s calling them as if I can get them swinging,” he noted.

Grantaire’s grin widened. “Hence the second reason why I’m out here. You know as well as I do that it’ll distract the batter, and I don’t like the guy anyway. May as well let him sweat a little bit.”

Thought Enjolras rolled his eyes, he nonetheless cracked a grin as well, even as he grumbled, “The only thing you’re distracting is me.”

Still, they exchanged another few words of conversation as Montparnasse added his own unnecessary commentary. “While catchers and pitchers normally have close relationships due to an implicit trust needed for the catcher to call a pitch properly and the pitcher, of course, to pitch it, none can deny that Enjolras and Grantaire have an unnaturally close relationship, the precise nature of which we can only speculate on.”

“Speculate on my ass,” Enjolras hissed, and Grantaire slapped him with his baseball glove.

“Keep your head in the game. Take your anger and direct it at the other team.” Enjolras sighed but nodded, and Grantaire winked at him as he backed towards home plate. “Game on.”

Enjolras shook his head but managed a real smile, and in no time at all, had struck the next batter out, ending the National Guard’s turn at bat.

Feuilly was up first for Les Amis, and brought the crowd to its feet with a home run from the very first pitch. The applause from Les Amis’ dugout was thunderous, though Courfeyrac frowned and glanced around as Feuilly jogged the bases. “Where’s Gavroche?” he asked Combeferre above the applause. “He’s batboy tonight, isn’t he?”

Combeferre shrugged, still applauding. “I think I saw him at the concession stand before the game began. Maybe he’s still eating.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Typical,” he grumbled, watching as Feuilly bent to pick up his own bat before coming back to the dugout to backslaps and handshakes.

“Where’s Gavroche?” he asked.

“Probably on his third hotdog by now,” Courfeyrac told him as they watched the National Guardsman catcher join the pitcher on the mound, followed very closely by their field manager. “And it looks like their pitcher’s pitched his last home run. Shame. I was hoping to hit one when I was up at bat.”

Feuilly shrugged. “We’re up one-zero,” he pointed out, clapping Courfeyrac on the shoulder. “Relax for half a minute while they warm up their relief pitcher. Or see to Enjolras, since he looks like he’s about to punch someone. And in the meantime, I’m going to see if I can find Gavroche and remind him that it was his idea to be batboy and him who badgered Enjolras into letting him, not the other way around.”

“To be fair, it’s only because Enjolras told him he was too young to be on the team,” Courfeyrac called after him, though he did in fact go over to Enjolras, who did in fact look like he was about to throttle someone, which might have been because Montparnasse was currently midway through a soliloquy that appeared to be dedicated to explaining how Enjolras was significantly more attractive than either the National Guard’s new pitcher or previous pitcher. “We’re up one-zero,” Courfeyrac told Enjolras, who switched from glaring up at the announcer’s box to glaring at Courfeyrac.

“So?” he asked.

“So you could afford to lighten up, just ever so slightly. And ignore Montparnasse. He’s harmless. You remember how he almost shit his pants after Valjean gave him a talking-to last year, right?”

Bossuet laughed and slung an arm around Enjolras’s shoulder. “I admire Enjolras,” he said cheerfully. “He manages to keep his head in the game as if we were losing even when we’re up in the second inning!”

Everyone laughed, but Enjolras didn’t smile, his scowl only deepening. And perhaps it was a good thing that he kept his head in the game, since while the National Guard’s second pitcher wasn’t really much better than their first, Javert appeared to be taking the change in pitcher rather personally, since he started calling every pitch, regardless of how erratic, as a strike.

“I’ll kill him with my bare hands,” Enjolras growled after Javert called both Bahorel and Joly out on strikes. “There’s no way that this is fair, ethical, or allowed within the rules.”

Grantaire sighed. “This is charity league. We can only afford one ump, and the only thing we win is bragging rights for a year. Yeah, it’s not exactly great calls being made, but we can’t exactly prove outright cheating at the moment either.”

His point was bolstered by Courfeyrac managing a single off a ball that just stayed on the right side of the foul line, and Grantaire shrugged. “Man, this game seems to have a lot of awfully convenient timing,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Of course, his point was also weakened by Jehan striking out after not swinging on three pitches that were clearly balls. If anything, Enjolras’s mood seemed even fouler by this point, and Courfeyrac nudged him companionably as they jogged out to the field. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Le Cabuc’s up to bat next,” Enjolras told him, a little grimly.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself!” Grantaire called to him from home plate before lowering his face mask.

But whether he was getting ahead of himself or not, Enjolras’s game was affected, and he didn’t need Javert making bad calls to get two National Guardsmen on base. Grantaire jogged back out to the pitcher’s mound, this time absent his sardonic grin, instead bearing a grim look on his face. And since Combeferre and Courfeyrac joined him, the grim look was probably merited. “I’m fine,” Enjolras said, before anyone even said a word.

Combeferre rolled his eyes and was about to speak, but Grantaire beat him to it. “You’ve been pitching erratically all inning, so don’t tell me you’re fine.” Enjolras gritted his teeth but said nothing. “You need to do something to get your head back into this game because we don’t currently have a relief pitcher.”

“Grantaire is right—” Courfeyrac started, but before he could continue, Gavroche chose that moment to return from his concession stand coma and jog onto the field. “What are you doing here?” Courfeyrac asked him. “You’re only supposed to be on the field when we’re batting!”

Gavroche tugged the rim of his baseball cap and blew a bubble in his bubblegum before grinning. “Sure. Just thought you might want to know something about the ump, cuz I’ve seen him before and I know who he is.”

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Grantaire all swiveled to stare at him. “You do?” Enjolras asked quietly.

“Well, sure. He works for the Guard.”

Enjolras let out an honest-to-goodness growl and Courfeyrac punched his gloved hand with his other. “Well that explains a lot,” Grantaire said, unnecessarily, as Combeferre nodded in agreement.

Just to compound things, Javert chose that moment to strode over to the pitcher’s mound, red-faced. “You’re not allowed to have your batboy on the field when you’re not at bat,” he told them. “And this meeting has gone on long enough. Take your places.”

“I don’t think we will,” Enjolras said coolly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “At least, not until you tell everyone whose payroll you’re on.”

Javert’s faced reddened even further, and was about to speak when Valjean and the rest of the team joined them at the pitcher’s mound. “What’s going on?” Valjean asked.

“Why don’t you ask Javert?” Courfeyrac returned. “He’s the one who  _works for the National Guard_.”

He said the last part loud enough for even the crowd to hear it, and they let out an appropriately shocked gasp, compounded by Montparnasse who repeated the news excitedly. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Les Amis are accusing the umpire of working for the National Guard, a flagrant violation, of course, of the charity league rules!”

Javert glared at them all. “Maybe I do,” he said coldly. “But  _you_  don’t have the authority to stop me from umping this game. Only league officials have that right.”

“We may not have that right,” Enjolras acknowledged, taking a step forward, his chin raised defiantly as the crowd started booing Javert. “But there are those here with the ultimate right to decide what kind of baseball game they want to watch, and that would be them.” He gestured at the crowd, which cheered for him, then looked back at Javert. “The crowd will decide your fate, Javert, and at the moment, it doesn’t sound like they want you to stick around.”

Javert snarled, but Valjean laid a warning hand on his arm. “Let me escort him out of the field,” he said to Enjolras. “We don’t want any trouble from the crowd, not over something like this.”

Enjolras shrugged and Valjean tugged Javert towards the exit, ignoring whatever Javert was muttering angrily under his breath, though Bossuet, who was on the outskirts of the group, thought he heard Javert mutter, “Convict” and “criminal” several times. Combeferre cleared his throat. “Not to sound like I’ve memorized the league rule book—”

“Though he has,” Courfeyrac interrupted.

“—But without an umpire, the game is forfeited, and with a one-zero score, we win by default.”

Montparnasse appeared to have been consulting the rulebook as well, since at that instant, he announced, “According to league rules, with no umpire, the game is forfeit and the score as is stands as the final score. And you know what that means — your Les Amis win!”

The crowd went wild, but Enjolras strode forward, determined look on his face. “No!” he shouted, loudly enough that the crowd settled down to stare at him, confused.

They weren’t the only ones — Les Amis’ reactions ranged from confused to outright shocked, and Combeferre asked urgently, “What are you doing?”

“This isn’t victory,” Enjolras said, a stubborn lilt to his voice, and Grantaire groaned, recognizing it far too well. “We didn’t win anything, we just happened to not lose. So we’re not taking this as a win. We’ll reconvene tomorrow with a new umpire, and we’ll finish the game then. And we  _will_ win.”

The last part he directed to the National Guard, which booed and jeered, though Enjolras ignored them (Bahorel flipped them the bird and Gavroche gave a rude gesture that left Courfeyrac quickly hiding his laughter so he could scold him). Grantaire sighed audibly. “This is a stupid idea,” he told Enjolras, who turned back to raise an eyebrow at him. “We should just take the win and run with it. Now is not the time for your lofty ideals.”

“If not now, then when?” Enjolras challenged. “If not on this field, then where? We do more than play a simple game here. We aim to—”

“Yeah, ok, I don’t care,” Grantaire interrupted in a bored-sounding voice. He glanced around at his teammates. “If this farce is going to go on, everyone’s invited to the bar. Drink with me to America’s pastime — or something like that.”

Normally Enjolras would have interrupted to insist they all get a good night’s rest before the next game, but he was no longer paying attention, watching instead as Le Cabuc seemed to be taunting a man in the stands. Just as Enjolras began crossing over to him, Le Cabuc threw the baseball in his hands at the man in question, hitting him with it.

So naturally, Enjolras punched Le Cabuc in the face. “Oh, fuck,” Combeferre said, hurrying over, followed by the rest of Les Amis.

Enjolras had Le Cabuc’s arm in a brutal grip and was ignoring the explanation he was trying to give. “You have one minute to get off this field,” Enjolras told him quietly, “or I swear to God I will end your life as you know it.”

Le Cabuc beat a hasty exit from the stadium, and the team was silent for a long moment before Feuilly said, “Right. Well. We’ll need a new designated hitter.”

“I can do it.”

Everyone looked over at the stands, where Marius Pontmercy was standing. He had come to one of the team’s practices before but had clashed rather spectacularly with both Enjolras and Combeferre. Now, though, that seemed forgotten, as Enjolras slowly nodded his head. “Alright,” he agreed. “If it’ll save the team.”

Grantaire heaved a sigh. “Well, now that  _that’s_  taken care of, let’s go drink.” He looped his arm through Enjolras’s and tugged him in the direction of the stadium’s beer stand. “And even you are going to have a drink tonight, Apollo.”

Enjolras frowned and was about to respond but they were interrupted by Montparnasse, down from the announcer’s box. He squeezed between both of them, putting an arm around both of their shoulders. “And here’s my favorite pitcher and catcher,” he said, squeezing them uncomfortably tight. “Of course, since we’re off the record here, it wouldn’t hurt to tell me which one of you pitches and which receives in the only way that counts.”

“You think you’re so clever, with your witty, vaguely sexual jokes,” Grantaire said snidely, sliding out from under Montparnasse’s arm. “But you haven’t allowed for the possibility that we’re both switch hitters, and besides, I can guarantee that Enjolras knows how to handle a baseball bat.”

Enjolras nodded firmly before adding, “And balls.”

Grantaire sighed. “I was going for a more subtle innuendo,” he told Enjolras patiently before switching his gaze back to Montparnasse and telling him, a little triumphantly, “But yeah, Enjolras knows how to handle balls as well.”

“And does he handle  _your_  balls?” Montparnasse shot back.

Enjolras drew himself up and fixed Montparnasse with his fiercest look. “Whether or not I do, I’m never going to handle yours, so fuck off.” And with that, he pulled Grantaire to him and kissed him deeply.

Grantaire kissed him back before pulling away. “I was  _trying_  to be aloof and to not confirm anything,” he sighed. “And now you’ve gone and thrown that out the window.”

“Shut up and kiss me again,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire did, though he pulled back again to glare at Montparnasse. “And if you say one word about this when you’re commentating on the game tomorrow, I will shove your microphone so far up your ass—”

Enjolras cut off Grantaire’s further threat with a swift kiss, though he added to Montparnasse, “And I won’t do a damn thing to stop him.” Then he wrapped an arm around Grantaire’s waist and pulled him in the direction of the beer stand.

“I really will do it, you know,” Grantaire said.

Laughing lightly, Enjolras ordered two beers for them and turned to face him. “I know you will.” He frowned slightly. “Do you really think it was stupid to not take the forfeit? I mean, are you that convinced we’ll lose tomorrow?”

Grantaire was quiet as they received their beers and he took a long pull from his before replying. “I think it wasn’t the brightest move,” he said honestly. “And I can’t say whether we’ll win or lose tomorrow.” He held his plastic cup up for a toast. “But one way or another, I’ll be there. That I can promise.”

Enjolras smiled and tipped his cup against Grantaire’s. “Then that’s all I ask.”

Grantaire grinned and reached up to kiss him before asking, mock-seriously, “And you really wouldn’t stop me from kicking Montparnasse’s ass?”

“You literally just watched me punch a guy in the face,” Enjolras pointed out dryly. “What do you think?”

“A valid point as always,” Grantaire laughed, grabbing Enjolras’s free hand and lacing their fingers together. “A valid point as always.”


End file.
